


Or Not to Be

by SEF



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-18
Updated: 2000-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEF/pseuds/SEF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Mikey's quickening, Richie reflects on his own adolescent choices regarding life and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or Not to Be

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with Kat Parsons.
> 
> This is an attempt to fill in the missing scenes in "The Innocent." The concluding dialogue is drawn directly from that fourth-season episode. Despite the title, this story was written and published long before the final Highlander episode.
> 
> Introduction and Dedication: Often when a teenager commits or attempts to commit suicide, there is a wave of such attempts by other kids in the community. This story was born in sorrow and concern over one such wave. It was written in round-robin style over a period of roughly two weeks, our second such collaboration. "Or Not to Be" is dedicated to those young people who sometimes think they're all alone, that their problems are immortal and they themselves are insignificant, that nothing will ever change for the better.
> 
> Everything changes and you're not alone.
> 
> "To be, or not to be: that is the question...  
> To die: to sleep:  
> ...and by a sleep to say we end the heartache  
> And the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—  
> 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd."  
> —William Shakespeare, "Hamlet," Act iii. Sc. 1.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


I think Mac must have carried me back to the car—that part's still kinda fuzzy. If he did, I'm glad I don't remember it. The last thing I do remember is the freight train whistle, right before Mikey's quickening hit me. I don't know how Mac can just get up after a Q like that and keep going. I felt like I was boneless. If it wasn't for the car door, I would have slid right onto the highway, and no one would even have noticed. Mac had his hands full just making sure the cops weren't on our tail.

It was only my third quickening, and as bad as the first two were, the one I'd just taken was worse. Mikey trusted me, Mikey looked to me for protection, Mikey didn't have anybody else but me. And I came for his head. He knew what I was going to do, and when he saw I didn't want to, he found a way to do it for me. _He offed himself._ I could have stopped him, but I didn't. All I did was stand there like some kind of vampire, sucking in his quickening.

What a bastard I am.

I don't know what happened to Mikey's body, and I'm not gonna ask. I doubt Mac had time to bury him. Probably some poor cop is going to find the pieces, and Mikey will end up in the swampy section of the local cemetery. I don't think they give coffins to indigents, do they? Zip him up in a body bag, and put him six feet under. Chances are, I'll be right next to him some day soon.

Maybe I ought to be.

How come Mikey's life didn't matter? Just because he wasn't ever going to be a rocket scientist—or even a railroad conductor—does that mean he didn't have any value, any reason to live? And if Mikey didn't, do I? I'm no rocket scientist either, never even finished high school. Maybe Mikey wasn't any use to the world, but I'm not either, never have been.

So why should Mikey die while I live? From his quickening, I know he didn't mean to kill Helen. He was just trying to do what Alan told him to do. You might as well blame me for walking Tessa out to the car because that's where Mac thought she would be safe.

Why not? _I_ blame me.

Mac doesn't say so, but I know he has to blame me, too.

I know, the cops would have hunted Mikey down no matter where I took him. That's what Mac said, and he's always right. I'm not sure if Mac didn't want Mikey to live through what prison would do to him, or if he was just worried that sooner or later someone would figure out that the big guy wasn't getting any older. I guess it doesn't matter. At the time, I didn't see any good alternatives to killing him.

But, slumped in that car seat, watching the trees whiz by my window, I knew someone else could have found one. That big caveman guy in Paris, Mac managed to find a safe home for him, and he'd killed people, too. OK, not cops, but people. And he couldn't be _that_ much brighter than Mikey. Darius would have found Mikey a home, I know he would. If Mikey had found somebody better than me for a friend, he would have been all right, he would still be alive. Hell, even _I_ found someone to take care of me when I thought I never would, didn't even know I needed it. If Mikey didn't belong in this world, I wondered if I did.

I'd wondered that before.

Mac looked at me, and I could see the pity in his eyes. Still, a third quickening, killing some retarded guy I only knew a couple days, must be real Mickey Mouse stuff to him—his third quickening was, what, three hundred and fifty years ago? A long time ago, anyway. And killing friends? He's had to do that a lot. My feelings wouldn't make any sense to him. Just kid stuff. How could he understand what I feel like? I know he doesn't. I don't suppose he even remembers what it feels like to still be grossed out by severed heads or scared of quickenings, much less what it feels like to be twenty-one years old, or nineteen, or whatever the hell I am. No, he's forgotten all about what those things feel like. And there are other things he's never felt at all.

"You can't save everyone, Rich. I'm proud of you for trying."

I snorted and turned back to the window. Any other time, hearing that would have made my day and then some, but I knew he was just trying to be nice to me. Where did I get the idea that I was ready to protect the helpless? I couldn't have held off Tyler King for five minutes. I picked Mikey up, and Mac's the one who had to look out for him. I couldn't blame Mac for it not working out. Mikey was my project, and I was the one who failed.

It was all my fault.

When I got to be an immortal, Mac spent a lot of time training me how to use a sword and explaining to me what the rules are. He never told me anything about quickenings, though, except that that's how immortals get each other's "knowledge and power." I guess he figured that I didn't need any explanations, since I'd seen him take Slan's quickening when I was seventeen. Or maybe he just didn't want to talk about it, because it's too much like sex. Anyway, I sure wasn't prepared for what it was really like. It _is_ like sex, except that when you lose control, you end up sharing somebody else's mind instead of their body.

Mac could have taken Mikey's Q and hardly even felt it—he's got so many old immortals inside him, and four hundred years of his own living. He felt sorry for Mikey, because he knew he'd never have any life worth living. I felt sorry for Mikey too but, after looking at life through his eyes, I know I'm in no position to judge him.

The truth is, Mikey and I were a lot alike. He was a lot older than me—I don't know how old, but I think whenever he grew up, the train was the best way to get far away from your troubles. For me, it was a motorcycle. Mac could probably tell me the difference in years, but it doesn't really matter. It all amounts to the same thing. I bounced around foster homes and juvenile care for sixteen years; Mikey must have done it a lot longer than that. And I thought _I_ was sick of being a kid! Mikey finally found a couple nice people to look out for him—and then King comes along and he's back to being homeless and hungry. That's another thing Mikey and I agree on: the Game sucks and the rules are stupid. Mikey and Alan should have been able to fight for their family together.

Of course, life sucks, too, and its rules are just as stupid. Oh, it's nice enough for some people. Not for me. Just when I get to thinking I might be wrong about that, something knocks me on my ass to remind me. Like when my best foster mom died while I laughed. Like when a foster dad beat me and they took me away from my school and my friends, saying from now on it'll be better. Yeah, right—there are worse things than getting hit. Like when I found Mac and Tessa... and Tessa died and I got to be nineteen forever and Mac changed toward me. Like when I started feeling like I might make a life of my own doing something I'm actually good at and I die in front of half of Europe. Like when I try to help somebody and end up killing him.

Mac, now, Mac likes rules. The Game doesn't have enough rules for him, so he makes up his own. He has to be more honorable than anybody else. He's even got two whole sets of rules: one for mortals and one for immortals. Now that I'm an immortal, he can't cut me any slack. That's the rule. I've got to measure up, or I'm dead. When Tessa was alive and I was a mere mortal, we used to goof around sometimes. And he acted like he liked having me around, even if I was a pain in the ass and he was always having to yell at me for my own good. Now most of the time I'm _just_ a pain in the ass, and he has to keep training me anyway. Because that's his rule.

I used to think when I grew up I wouldn't have to pay any attention to the rules anymore. No one could tell me where I had to live or how I had to act. No one could make me pretend to believe in their God and follow His commandments. I'd have a good job and a girl and money and a fast car, and no cops would ever get close enough to tell me not to break their laws.

Now my whole life depends on somebody else's rules.

So I had to ask myself: Why? Why am I gonna play by these rules made up by somebody that no one even_knows?_ Is there a chance in hell that I'm ever gonna get anything out of life but a cheap apartment and an expensive sword? So why should I give some asshole the satisfaction? I'd rather be dead and gone, like Darius, than trapped inside somebody else's head. Mac hates death—he's afraid of it, I think—but there've been lots of times I would have been better off dead. No exaggeration. Death can be a friend.

"Richie, stop beating yourself up."

I finally figured out that Mac didn't even know what happened. He thought I did the _responsible_ thing.

"I didn't kill him, Mac, OK? He offed _himself._ On the railroad track. All I did was lay back and enjoy it."

God, I've got a nasty mouth sometimes. Mac probably wanted to strangle me right then. He gripped the steering wheel so hard I thought it might break. I could tell he was holding his breath. He didn't look at me again.

"Dealing with the quickening of a suicide is a tough thing. You've got to be feeling a lot of what Mikey felt at the end."

I laughed. I know I shouldn't have, because Mac's a good guy, and he'd just pulled my ass out of yet another situation, and I knew he was trying to help. He's good at taking care of people. Not like me. But suicide is something he doesn't know anything about. Mikey and me, we're experts.

I finally found something I know more about than Mac.

See, I used to think about dying a lot when I was a kid. OK, so I'm not exactly an old guy now, but I mean_just_ a kid. When I headed out the door of my last foster home and never went back, I thought I was old enough to finally go through with it. I didn't know then that if I killed myself I'd just come back, so it's just as well I didn't. It's hard enough being _nineteen_ forever: imagine hundreds of years with acne, and arms and legs too long for your clothes, and being called "boy" or "kid" or "son"—OK, so I get those last three anyway, but at least my clothes fit and my face doesn't break out. And I can pass for old enough to order a beer or flirt with a co-ed. If I'd died my first death at sixteen, I'd lay down on a railroad track for sure.

Maybe I should anyway.

But I wasn't used to killing then, when I was sixteen, so I didn't just go out and buy a Saturday night special and blow my brains out. You wouldn't think somebody like me could still be squeamish, but I was then. I had this crazy idea that I could just go out on the street and let somebody else do the job for me. Maybe I'd starve to death in a week or two, and my social worker would come cry over my body. Uh huh. Or some convenient mugger would blow my brains out _for_ me. Or a friendly drug dealer would give me a free sample, and I'd drift blissfully off to heaven on a heroin high. I never said I was smart, right? I figured nothing could be worse than what I'd already been through. And maybe it wasn't; maybe it was just as bad.

I don't know what it was about that night that set me off. I'd been beaten worse before, and by worse foster fathers—at least this one kept his hands on the outside of my clothes. And I have to admit I gave him lots of grief. But something snapped, and I don't mean the rib or two he cracked when he kicked me. Maybe it was the beers I drank, which was why he hit me in the first place. Maybe I'd just reached an age where I suddenly realized, I don't need anybody anymore, I don't need to take shit off of no one anymore. I shoved my stuff in my backpack, which was all the luggage I needed, and I said sayonara to this and headed out the window—sort of a pattern for my life, I guess, always going out through windows.

I spent that first night in somebody's garage, the second in a convertible—I'd done that before, other times I'd run away—the third behind a dumpster, and by the fourth I'd found permanent digs in a condemned building with a bunch of other runaways and homeless people. I didn't have much money, just a few bucks. I figured that would last me until some gang-banger took me out. It didn't. And I figured out pretty quick that I didn't want to die by starvation. It was too slow, and it hurt too much.

Fortunately, I had skills I'd picked up in juvy. I knew how to pick locks and pockets, and I knew a few other things, too. I had all I needed to keep myself fed. Hell, I could have probably put myself up in a flophouse some nights if I could just have passed for eighteen.

"Rich?"

I jumped. I was pretty damn surprised when I looked out the window and realized we were back in Seacouver. "What are we doing here?"

"I thought you might want to sleep in your own bed tonight."

Damn, it's scary sometimes how Mac seems to read my mind. Course, I don't think he really knew I was thinking about being homeless, but still. He got out of the T-bird and started around for my side. You can bet I scrambled out of that car. Luckily, by that time my legs were working again. Like Joe says, "Immortality: it'll cure everything but a broken heart." Or head, in the case of me and Mikey.

We went upstairs to my apartment, which wasn't in too big a mess, considering I wasn't expecting company. I figured Mac would take off then, but I couldn't get him to go. He's never spent much time at my place, so it felt kinda weird to have him there. He told me to just go to bed and stop worrying about it, so that's what I did. I dropped my jacket and sword on the chair, pulled off my shoes, and just crashed on top of the bedcovers.

I didn't sleep too well, though. I kept waking up, and I couldn't remember if I was sixteen or twenty-one, or Mikey or Richie, or mortal or immortal. Or which was better. But however I woke up, I always knew night was the worst part. When it gets quiet and dark and cold but your brain keeps going round and round and all your problems seem immortal. Like you're stuck right where you're at, and nothing will ever change for the better. I don't know if that makes any sense. But when I was sixteen I _knew_ nothing would ever change. That I'd always be a sneak thief, that I'd always be eating out of McDonald's dumpsters, that I'd always be smelly and dirty and hungry and alone.

That I'd always be afraid.

The mugger who was supposed to off me never showed up, though there were plenty of seriously weird dudes walking the streets on the east end and, so far as I could tell, most of them were sleeping in my building. There was one that kept kinda plucking at my clothes and mumbling things I didn't understand. And, out on the streets, it was even worse. It was a full-time job just keeping my hide in one piece from the robbers and the perverts and the gang-bangers and the crazies.

I'd sort of forgotten about my plan to die—maybe because I was too busy trying to survive. Sounds funny, I know. I can't explain it, but that's how it was. I was too much of a coward to do myself in. And every time danger turned up, I just ran away without even thinking about it—it was like my feet took over.

Sometimes I took some comfort from the drugs I could pick up on every corner. A couple times, I took comfort from one of the girls that worked the same streets I did—different profession, but we were the same inside.

At least it made me feel like a man and not a helpless kid.

Mikey understands that—I can tell. Mac thinks Mikey was innocent because he wasn't very bright. I don't need him to tell me that Mikey wasn't a puppy dog! Being homeless was tough enough for me, and I've got a fast mouth and fast feet. When you're big and dumb and slow you just get robbed and beat and raped more often.

Lotsa people think kids and retards only have _nice_ feelings. Not hate and anger and resentment so bad you wanta smash everything you see. Not horniness. Not being so sad and scared you can't even think about anything or anybody else. Believe me, nobody who's been on the street for more than a week is feeling nice all the time.

So who's the innocent one? Not me, and not Mikey. The way I look at it, Mac's life is grand opera, ours is Tracy Chapman. Even when Mac's in trouble, it's all about heroes, and honor, and tragedy. He doesn't get that for some people trouble is just...crass. Just ugly and meaningless and stupid.

Anyway, time went by and the cold lump of fear in my gut got hard and grew like ice spreading through me. I got hurt so many times that I stopped being afraid of getting hurt. So many times I could hardly remember a time when I wasn't getting hurt, couldn't even imagine anymore a time when I _wouldn't_ get hurt. I was getting hard inside, hard and cold, like the people who hurt me.

I knew my life would never get better, I knew I was freezing over.

And then one of the girls, the one I'd been with, jumped off the roof of our building and went splat. I saw her face, so peaceful under the blood, and I stopped being afraid of dying. Whatever death is, I knew it couldn't be as bad as living. And better to die while there was still some of _me_ left.

I started thinking again about all the ways I could die. I even enjoyed daydreams of how the world would find my broken, bleeding body and _then_ they'd be sorry. Which was pretty stupid, I know, because if you're nothing when you're alive, you're less than nothing dead. But it made me feel better at the time. I liked to think someone would care someday.

During the day, I talked with the same people, I laughed the way I always had, I picked pockets and ate hot dogs, but all night I'd think about how to die. I thought about the easy ways, the messy ways—I liked messy, I don't know why, I wasn't too big on pain—and I actually started to feel better, until one day without me making it the decision was made. Suddenly, I felt like I was, I don't know, a kid again. I was going to off myself, and I was so buzzed it was almost like being drunk.

Things were gonna change.

Newspapers are real useful things when you haven't got a blanket or a windbreaker or anything to do. I bet I read the paper more when I was living on the street than I ever did since. That's where I got my idea. I was reading the local section, and there was this big story about a child custody case between two filthy rich parents, and it came to me. The perfect place: family court. Even if the judges and the cops and the social workers who knew me weren't there, they'd get the message. Richard Ryan would make a mess of their bloody system. It was perfect.

I needed a weapon. Like I said, messy appealed to me. You can make a good big puddle of blood with a knife, but you can spatter brains and blood with a gun, and I wanted to leave a mark on the world before I went. Unfortunately, guns are harder to come by, even on the streets. I didn't have the money to buy one, and I tried to steal one and got beat up so bad I couldn't "earn" a living for days. I already had a switchblade—protection, you know—and a pretty fancy Swiss Army knife I lifted off one of the johns that show up in the neighborhood every night. I didn't know what a blade really was back then! If the knife didn't work, I figured I could just do my damnedest to get some bailiff to shoot me.

I did have a couple fantasies of ending up on the roof shouting "Top of the world, Ma!" like Jimmy Cagney, but I wasn't that naive and it only made me laugh.

I'd been in family court a lot—about every six months, it seemed like. Juvenile court, too, the last few years, for vandalism, running away, stealing. Assault once, too, but I was innocent on that one, because the other guy started it. I knew the way around the courthouse buildings like I knew my basement corner; all I had to do was get my knives through the door and it'd be time for the angels to swing that chariot down and pick me up.

Not that I believed in angels, or heaven, or God. I wasn't expecting to go to a better life or anything—I was just expecting the fear and pain to end. I didn't know then that it never would, unless someone cut my head off. And for all I know, the pain just keeps going, even after you're just part of somebody else's thoughts.

I sat up in bed. That's when I realized that Mikey was gone. Sometime during the night he just disappeared. I squeezed my eyes shut and lay down and tried to bring him back by thinking about railroad schedules and chocolate bars and riding up the coast on the back of my motorcycle, but I couldn't find him. I never wanted Mako or Kristov in my head—they spit on me anyway—but Mikey was my friend. I wanted him back, but I couldn't find him. He was gone. I was alone again. I slammed my fist into the pillow to keep from crying, but I started to cry anyway.

"Richie?"

Mac didn't leave when I turned in. He stuck his head in the door to check on me and I pretended I was asleep. I must have done a good job faking it, because after standing there a couple minutes, Mac closed the door and left me alone.

I always was a good liar.

To keep from hitting the pillow again, I started picturing what I must have looked like that day I decided to end it all. It was funny, thinking of Mac and how I "fixed myself up" to go to the courthouse. I washed up in a gas station bathroom the best I could, then shoplifted a souvenir t-shirt, so I'd smell better and not look so messy. Figuring I looked as presentable as I was going to get, I headed uptown. I thought I was fixed up, but if Mac had seen me that day, he would have thought I was pathetic. I was pathetic, I guess.

Am pathetic.

I've wondered a lot why Mac puts up with me at all, why he didn't just take my head that night I broke into the store and save himself a lot of work. It kinda hurts to think that maybe if he had Tessa might still be alive. I'm surprised he didn't do it the night Tessa died, or at least send me packing. Maybe he should have. Sometimes I wish he had.

Really, I know why he didn't, even though he's never come out and said so—honor. He was the immortal to find me, and honor says he has to be my teacher whether I'm worth the effort or not. And he's been a good one, put up with a lot from me, been really generous. He didn't _have_ to give me a valuable sword. He could have gotten me one for a few hundred bucks out of a catalog or something, and I'd never have known the difference. Sometimes I wish instead of an expensive sword he'd just give me...but that's too much to ask.

No, Mac's been good to me, and generous, better than anything I deserved or ever expected, and I owe him more than my life for all he's done.

Still, there are things I just can't talk to him about. I suppose it would be like him trying to make me understand quickenings before I took one.

I picked a bright sunny day to play my last scene; it seemed appropriate, because my heart was light, like I had something happy bubbling in my chest. The courthouse was busy, and no one paid attention to me—probably figured I was there to pay a fine or something. It was easy to get past the metal detectors—I just slipped the Swiss Army knife into the pocket of some red-faced guy that already looked mad and when they stopped him and the shouting started, I slipped on in with my switchblade in my pocket. There are advantages to being a skinny kid who looks younger than he is.

Then I went to the courtroom where I had my last hearing and squeezed in the back. There wasn't much room because all these other people who read the paper too decided to come and see how the rich fight over their kids. I pushed into one of the pews right in front and ignored the women who were glaring at me. I checked out the carpet—white was too much to ask for, but at least it was kinda dirty beige. The judge looked familiar, too. Pretty good, for just taking a chance.

One of the lawyers was talking about what a useless jerk the mother was, and a lawyer on the other side was jumping up and down to say that was a bunch of crap, and the tension was so thick up there in front, it was like being in the middle of a gang fight just before everybody pulls out their weapon. I was kinda enjoying the show, when I saw this little girl at the table in front of me turn around and start to cry. She was like _right_ in front of me, and the women beside me were clucking over her, but she just ignored them and stared right at me. I never thought rich kids could look that way, like she knew the fighting was never gonna stop, and nothing was ever gonna be right again. She put her hands over her ears and just stared at me with these big brown eyes, and tears running down her cheeks even though she never made a sound. And I started to cry too. Because I still could. Because I didn't want to live long enough to be like the ones who couldn't cry anymore. I didn't even think about it—I just pulled the knife out of my pocket, flipped it open, and shoved it between my ribs and into my heart.

It didn't hurt at all. Everything seemed real far away, like I could hardly hear the lady next to me screaming, and the bailiff running toward me. All I saw was those big brown eyes looking into mine, and I knew that kid understood. I hope that's what Mikey saw when he looked at me the last time. I hope he did what he did because he wanted the pain to stop and not because I broke his heart. I hope he knows that I was his friend.

God, I couldn't think about that any more. Not with Mac right there in the next room. So I got up, and splashed some cold water on my face, and found a t-shirt that was almost clean to replace the one I slept in. When I went out in the living room, Mac was snoring on the sofa with one of my old motorcycle magazines open on his chest. I guess he didn't sleep too well, either.

It reminded me of taking Angie home after we'd been to a movie, and her dad would always be lying on the sofa waiting for her. He always said he hadn't been waiting up, that he'd just fallen asleep, but you knew he had been waiting. And you knew if she got home even five minutes late, she was gonna hear about it. I used to wish somebody would do that for me. And here's Mac, snoring on my sofa.

I know he's not my dad, and he doesn't want to be. Tessa's gone, and Charlie just died, and Anne left him. He doesn't need to lose anybody else, and even though we haven't said so, we both know I'm not in it for the long haul. And I'm too old to need a dad, even though I want one anyway. So I don't have to tell him, do I?

I can just pretend.

I fetched myself a glass of milk, but it was sour. Pepsi was all gone. That left water or beer, and I was in a ripe mood for a little alcoholic assistance, so I chose the beer and went to sit in my favorite chair. It's kind of a puke-green plastic; I got it from the Salvation Army for fifteen bucks. Mac says it dates from the end of the sixties or the early seventies—kind of useful, I guess, all that knowledge of antiques he's got in his head. Anyhow, it's comfortable except when it's hot, and it's only a little dirty and torn. I sank into the cushion carefully, so I wouldn't wake him up, and turned it so I could look out the window. If I stuck my head out and stretched my neck a little to the left, I could just make out the hospital from there. I didn't, but I could have.

I thought sure that knife would take me out in good speed and make a mess they'd never get out of that rug, but it's hard sticking a knife in yourself. No matter how much you want to do it, your body doesn't want you to. I should have done it fast and hard, but I moved too slow—never killed anyone before. I didn't get it far enough in to do for me right off, and then everyone around me moved so fast. I never would have expected a bailiff to care about me. I don't remember any of their faces, just the little girl.

A cop rode with me in the ambulance. He was a big guy, round face, gray hair, must have been at the end of his career. He helped the paramedics, talked to me, called me son. He kept asking for my name, my parents' names, my address and phone number, but I only heard him through a fog. I wouldn't have answered even if I could, but I didn't have any address or phone number, I didn't have any parents...and when it came down to it, I didn't really have a name, not a real name, like you get from having a real family. I kept expecting to die, I could see a bright light beginning to glow, I could feel a peace I never dreamed of, and I really wanted the old cop to shut up and let me go. He didn't, though. He planted himself right in front of the white light and he talked so loud I couldn't hear the peace.

And then we were at the hospital and they started talking about pulling out the knife, and I knew when they did that I'd die, because I'd seen it happen more than once. I closed my eyes and waited, so glad it would soon be over.

And woke up in a nightmare of tubes and machines and beeping and chrome and white and glass. Waking up in a surgical intensive care unit may be worse than waking up immortal. It's sure as hell the last place you're ever gonna find peace. Or maybe the psych ward is the _last_ place.

They tried to be nice to me, the people there. For once my motor mouth wasn't working, so I just laid there like a lump and let them talk at me. Most of them said what you'd expect, stuff like "everything's OK now" and "you're so young" and "you have so much to live for." I didn't say anything. I'd thought I was so grown up, but I was a scared little kid with a lot of decisions to make. Like—be dead? Or be—what? It didn't seem like really being alive was an option.

The only guy who made any sense to me turned out to be the chaplain, which was about the last thing I expected. He didn't act like my life was gonna turn out like a movie with a happy ending. I remember he said that everybody's got trouble, and some people get more than their fair share, and sometimes you just can't handle it all by yourself, and sometimes nobody can make it right anyway, even though they ought to try. But the thing I remember best was how he said that everybody dies, and if you find a good death staring you in the face, it might not be a bad idea to take it. I guess he meant like trying to save somebody who's drowning or fighting for your country, or stuff like that. Anyway, that made me feel kinda embarrassed, 'cause I knew trying to make somebody else feel bad wasn't a very good reason to die. I figured that I could take living the way I was a while longer, especially if I got smarter and started robbing a better class of establishment, and found a better place to crash at night.

Mikey tried a lot longer and harder than me, but I don't know if he ever had a chance. Maybe putting his head on the railroad track _was_ a good death for him. He didn't have to do it. He knew what I was gonna do, and he still wanted to make _me_ feel better. I guess it doesn't take brains to do something incredible like that for a friend. I guess, as bad as I feel now, I'd be feeling a whole lot worse if I'd had to kill Mikey when he was scared and upset. Though I still think I should have found some other way out of that tunnel.

It's not fair I keep thinking Mac should have known what to do. He's got his hands full trying to take care of me and everybody else. I wish I knew what I could do for _him_ sometimes. Maybe the best thing I can do is to let him be innocent about some things. Let him believe in the rules. Let him believe in the Prize. Maybe he couldn't be the kind of hero he is if he knew some of the stuff I know.

Mac believes that "good death" stuff: death before dishonor. So what am I supposed to do, when I got "dishonored" before I could read? Maybe Mac wouldn't be trying to teach me how to be a good immortal if he knew what I'm really like. Or maybe he would; maybe I'm his Mikey, another hopeless case. All I know is I'm really glad he tried, I'm really glad he's here. Because you know what the very worst part of it was, always? It wasn't hunger or cold or pain or anything like that. It was always being alone, always on my own. The loneliness would have killed me by now, if Mac and Tessa hadn't come along. I didn't think I knew how to love anybody until I was around them.

Naturally, the minute I start tearing up again is when Mac decides to wake up. I thought sure I was gonna hear about the dangers of drinking beer before seven o'clock in the morning, but he didn't say anything.

I didn't look at him. I didn't want him seeing me cry. Pity wasn't what I wanted from him. I heard him get up and come over to me, and felt his eyes on the back of my head just as I felt his hand on my shoulder. "You didn't have to stand watch over me." Why'd I say that, when him staying let me feel like somebody cared? I really am an idiot sometimes.

"I know." He sat down on the back of the chair. "I didn't want you to be alone."

Oh, God, how does he know these things? I found my knees drawing up all on their own and made them stop. I didn't want Mac knowing what a weakling I am. "It's almost light; I'm gonna go out for a run."

"Want some company?"

"No, thanks." Mr. Congeniality, I'm not.

"OK." I heard Mac get up and grab his sword and his coat. "I'm going out to the Edgar estate today to start working on the renovations. Call me on the cell phone if you need me."

"OK." I heard him open the door. "Thanks, Mac."

He didn't say anything for a second, and I wondered if he was still there.

"You're welcome." He shut the door and left.

I stayed right where I was; running was the last thing on my mind. It used to be the first thing I did when I got into trouble, but now it's not so easy to just take off. Ever since the day Mac tracked me down after I saw the quickening on Soldier's Bridge, he's had his hand on my collar—pulling me out of trouble and making sure I stayed put, did my job, did my training, shaped up. When he sent me away after I took Mako, I knew I had messed up big time. He's gotten over that, but I don't want to get exiled again.

I guess I got a little cocky after I managed to beat Kristov, but Mikey proved I'm not exactly ready to handle everything by myself. I still need Mac's help. And I always get it. Even when he's not there standing beside me telling me what to do, or behind me to back me up, or in front of me to protect me, he's there in my head, telling me what I should do. I don't always listen, but he's always there, kind of a big Scottish conscience with a pony-tail.

Before Mac and Tessa, though? I was never anything but alone, since the day Emily Ryan died. There were people around, but I never belonged to any of them.

In the hospital, after I got my mouth back, I told the therapist I was gonna be a better class of thief. She laughed; I'm not sure if she knew I wasn't kidding, but it seemed like she took it as a good sign. They kept me there for two full weeks, which was the longest they could, 'cause they knew I had nowhere to go. Social services picked me up and took me over to one of their juvenile warehouses, but I think they knew I wouldn't hang around. Soon as the coast was clear, I took off. I'd promised myself that last "home" was my last, and I'd meant it.

The year after that wasn't so bad—I found a better neighborhood, and started learning how to run con games from Stanley, and found a place to fence motorcycle parts. Hell, I was practically a professional. No Cary Grant cat burglar maybe, but I was doing OK. Eating regular, and I had a half-dozen warm places to crash. The cops picked me up a couple times, but they couldn't make anything stick, and I was still a juvenile, so it was hardly worth their time. It was just back to juvy and then back out on the street.

My mistake was trying to be Cary Grant—but then, that's how I ended up robbing the antique store in the first place, so it turned out lucky. Tessa was prettier and smarter than Grace Kelly any day of the week, and she loved me anyway.

If I could pick one thing to change in my whole life, it would be Tessa dying. I'd take a "good death" for her if only I could go back, if only I could step in front of the bullets. Even if I died forever, it would be worth it. It would be worth it for Tess, and it would be worth it to see Mac smile again like he really meant it. It wouldn't matter then how messed up I am inside, because I know then I'd be straight with Mac and Tessa forever.

If only I could.

But I can't. The best I can do is try to make Mac laugh when he gets too serious, and try not to get him killed with one of my stunts. He's never gonna let me take of care of him and, since he'll never get old, he's never gonna need it anyway. Which is good, I guess, since it's not likely I'll be around. But it's nice to think that maybe the man that wins the Prize will remember me. Mikey and me will both be inside his head. That's a kick, isn't it?

But I guess I could help him with that old wreck he's trying to fix up—God knows why. And I don't feel like spending the rest of the day here thinking about all the things I just did wrong the last few days. Besides, if I sit around brooding, Mac'll have to come back here and kick my ass.

I don't let things get to me, usually. I just keep smiling, keep laughing, find fun where I can. I made up my mind before I left the psych ward that I was gonna get what I can out of life for what time I have. I don't know why, exactly. Maybe it was because of the little girl, or the bailiff, or the cop, or the chaplain, or the nurses. Just knowing there was _somebody_ who cared, even if it was just for a little while, was enough.

I had to go by the loft just to find the real estate flyer with the address on it. Then I drove my bike out there—it was pretty country, hills and fields and forests, the kind Mikey liked when we were riding up the coast. And I started thinking about what "knowledge and power" I got from Mikey. I'm not sure, exactly. I wish there_was_ some "King of Trains" I could believe in. But I didn't get that. Maybe I just got that Mikey thought my feelings mattered. Or maybe I just got a chance to see that I'm not the only one who wasn't cut out to play this Game.

When I get to the house, Mac already has the saw set up and is working hard. You'd never know he had just spent the night babysitting me. The place is a dump, so naturally I gotta make some smart remark about that.

"It looked better in the picture."

"Yeah," Mac says, "I guess it did." I can tell from his voice that he's still worrying about me.

"Well, I thought maybe you could use a hand."

"Sure," Mac says. He doesn't even mention how I have exactly zero skills at home improvement. "You OK?"

"Yeah."

"You want to talk about it?"

About what? I think. Mikey, or me? About loving somebody, or letting them down? About growing up, or dying? Going on, or not? I shrug.

"What's to say?"

 

  
  
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